Trisul’s West Ridge saves all its guns for the last thousand metres. A scenic and gentle stroll up the Ronti Glacier gains the 6000 metre contour at a shoulder. We had our third camp here. Above, lies an intimidating slope of 55 degrees angle, glistening with ice in places and exposed to the full plunge of the mountain’s west wall.

Mark, Chetan, Furtemba, Ian and Zach were already up there. We could see the dark specks of their figures on the shaded slopes at 6500 metres above Camp 4. This was their summit day. We had a forecast for increasing winds as a western disturbance brushed close to the Greater Himalaya. Today and tomorrow summit winds would be 40-45 km/hr. Come Saturday there would be a gale of 70km/hr blowing from the north-west at summit level. Time was of the essence.

We started as three, but Arun Mahajan was still fatigued from a chest infection and stopped at Camp 3. That left me with John, more properly addressed as McLaren of Cambuslang, summer Munro-bagger, winter ski-bum and one-time expert engineer. This cheery Glaswegian had discovered a penchant for altitude, and though he considered himself no more than an honest plodder, he had an unflappability and positivity that gave me every hope that he could go all the way. John slept well and ate well. He had bought a dozen U-shaped Spanish chorizo sausages out to India, and seemed to be munching through most of them by himself.

In addition to sausage we loaded a bivi tent and porch on to our sacks at Camp 3. I guessed that Mark’s team would be late back and that accommodation would be limited at Camp 4 that night. An Indian Air Force team was climbing alongside us, their lead climbers and Sherpas laying a continuous line of 7mm polypropylene rope to secure the slower and more senior members of their ranks who would follow a day or two later. Though friendly and enthusiastic the Wing Commanders and Flight Lieutenants were seriously deficient in mountain experience. “This is my first peak… ever”, said one.

Our fixed lines were rather more substantial 8 and 9mm static ropes, secured by Mark with regular anchors. They stretched skyward in a continuous thread of 300 metres. We clipped in our clamps – a jumar for John and a fiddly little Ropeman for me - and began our ascent. Our sensory worlds narrowed to burning calves, aching shoulders and snatching breath, complemented by slight giddiness at the exposure. Nowhere a ledge, rarely even a step to rest - the slope soared to a sun-fringed horizon at an inestimable distance above. This was north face terrain!

We kept our 20 metre line of rope between us as extra security. When moving the jumar past anchor points it is essential to clip an additional sling into the rope as temporary protection. John managed to get his jumar jammed against an anchor point on three occasions and twice I had to climb down to help him release the tension. As befits a gentleman, John was profusely apologetic.
“I’m not used to these things; you must be getting awfully fed up with me.”

At 3.30pm we pulled on to the platform of Camp 4 at 6360m altitude. The site was cosily squeezed into a gap behind an ice bulge. Mark had just arrived back.
“We didn’t make the top. We got to the summit ridge at 7000 but there’s a narrow final section, which looked mega. It will need ropes and hardware. We didn’t have time for it. The boys are happy with what they’ve done.”
They were all too tired to descend any further and slumped into their tents. There was no time for recovery and sunbathing. The wind was rising with menacing gusts.

We squeezed our single-skin bivi tent into the last level gap and used every axe and ski pole to hold the tent down then piled snow round the porch and scurried indoors. We had claimed the prime spaces. The Air Force team were left with sloping pitches. Their tents were much larger and they failed to batten the flysheets. The wind came in two minute bursts. Our porch bulged and whip-cracked in its fury while the setting sun cast a flaming golden rim above a sea of angry cloud.

Sunset from Camp 4

John close to our high point

We spot Mark and Chetan coming down the summit ridge

Martin at the high point

In the lulls we made brief calls to the others. Ian, Zach and Furtemba were going down at first light. Mark and Chetan would try to go back up for a summit bid in the morning if the wind allowed. John and I gave vague intimation that we would follow. After forcing down a freeze-dried meal I fell to a blessed and dream-filled sleep, stirring only once to take a pee in the porch. Come 4am I woke properly. The wind was still funnelling through camp. The Indians were having a terrible night. Their flysheets were airborne, tethered to the inner tents only by the connecting tags.

John stirred. He had lain motionless at the bottom end of the tent, the Gore-tex skin of the tent whipped tight around his head, yet he wasn’t inclined to complain.
“Oh, I’ve had a grand sleep,” he said. “I just need to get up for a call.”
Half an hour later he returned, somewhat chastened.
“It’s a wee bit cold out there.”
I was forced to follow suit, squatting conspicuously behind the Indian tents. The blast of ice spiculae on one’s bum has an energising effect. I crawled back indoors in positive mind.
“Let’s get packed and give it a go.”
“Whatever you suggest.” replied John, not at all phased by the prospect.
Mark and Chetan were already afoot. They were taking our only full-length rope and snow stakes to try the final step on the ridge. They left soon after 6am. John took considerably longer to adjust his attire. He emerged half-an-hour later, snugly clad and mitted with the Mountain Equipment gauntlets that I had lent him for the climb. The mitts were of such volume that he was now unfit for any task other than shadow boxing.

Meanwhile, I had a desperate time trying to anchor and weight the tent, after removing our ice axes from the main guy-lines. With some relief we began the uphill grind, escaped the wind and could generate a modicum of warmth. The fixed ropes stretched upwards for several hundred metres. Mark had fixed all of these single-handed yesterday on the first foray to the summit, a phenomenal effort. The angle was barely reduced, never less than 50 degrees, and the ridge would be shaded until 10am. We stayed on our 20 metre line, looking no further than the next stanchion for our targets. As we reached a rock outcrop at 6600 metres John suddenly yelled in distress.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he wailed. “I’ve dropped your mitt. Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a new pair.”
Imminent frostbite was more of a worry at that moment than sale prices in Cotswold Outdoor. I was carrying a pair of old wool mitts as spares and John added a wind-proof over-mitt to give replacement cover. The climb continued and the sunlight finally reached us. The angle eased to 45 and then 40 degrees. A last 60 metre rope stretch and a final snow stake anchor, and we were freed from the chain. Vast slopes swept above, covered in wind crust and sastrugi ridges. The wind was fresh but tolerable so long as we turned our faces to lee. In truth ground conditions were magnificent.

At midday the final turret of Trisul came into view. We spotted the figures of Mark and Chetan descending, and knew that they must have made the top. An hour later they reached us.
“The ridge was spicy; needed two axes and we abseiled back down off the stake. The 60 metre rope was just long enough.”
Hearing that report I knew that John and I would not make it much beyond yesterday’s high point. We hadn’t a stick of gear between us except an axe apiece and our 20 metres of rope, and in any event the day was racing past us. We were both just at that point of fatigue where lucidity fades and intent wavers. There were a few “what if’s”. Maybe if we’d set out two hours earlier or filched a rope off the fixed lines; and yet the feelings of Zach and Ian also mattered. If John and I successfully summitted we’d have piggy-backed the greater efforts of the others. Quite apart from the question of our survival, there was symmetry and fairness that the client members all reached the same point. We could celebrate both the team success and the extra joy of Mark and Chetan who had run the show and deserved the top. Or maybe I’m just getting weak and soft in old age!

Now alone we pushed on and after half-an-hour reached the corniced crest where much of the Nanda Devi Sanctuary and the twin-peaked Goddess herself came into view. That last ridge looked tempting. We went a few more metres towards the step then stopped with John’s altimeter reading 6975m and his watch 2pm. It was high time to get down before the winds strengthened.

Nanda Devi and her southern Sanctuary from Trisul summit ridge

Quite near but still quite far - the last 140 metres of 7120m Trisul

Come nightfall we were still a hundred metres above Camp 4, and still high above Nanda Ghunti and the sea of clouds on the far side of the Nandakini valley. We struggled desperately to achieve any downward movement on the stiff and twisted polyprop ropes. I gave up trying to abseil and put a sliding prusik on the rope instead. I stayed close with John to supervise every change-over. At one anchor he slipped and grabbed my head in panic. I yelled some frothy abuse and he was racked by contrition.
“I’ve dropped your mitt, and now I’ve tried to rip your head off. I can’t seem to stop saying sorry.”

We reached camp in the last glow of twilight. The Indian team had long-since retreated to lower camps and Mark and Chetan were already in bed. Once again the wind hustled our preparations for the night, yet sleep came with ease. We’d had a great day out. Though we’d fallen short of the summit, we had at least seen the other side of the hill, and that, after all, is the main purpose of the game.

Martin descending the fixed lines at 6500m

29th September: Another Day in the Ronti Valley by Mike Timar

“I doze as the morning light fills the cave, relaxing with the thought of the semi-rest day that Martin has promised us. The last two days have been hard - 2,200m of ascent with a big pack, and seemingly endless traversing across tussock grass and boulder fields with hidden ankle-breaking holes a constant worry. The arrival of the sun is accompanied by Laxman's ever-smiling face and bed tea. Looking round as I sip the sweet milky liquid that gets us going every morning, our resting place really is quite luxurious. Gary and I have spent the night in a bijou two-man cave complete with hay bedding and an east-facing floor-to-ceiling picture window where Bethartoli Himal and Ronti peak glitter in the crystal-clear sky of early morning.

After two weeks of vegetarian diet and constant stress on my body Nature's call is immediate and can't be put off. It is time to get up and start the day. Breakfast finished and without a tent to take down, we are quick to pack and are soon on our way, crossing the river below and traversing down towards the slopes above the Ronti Glacier, the ascent of which under the west wall of Trisul is the planned finale to our trek. Here and there a path is visible under the tussocks as we cross pastures and arrive at a shepherd's gathering place, their small rectangular dwellings of low stone walls and bent branches waiting for next summer and a tarpaulin for a roof.

As we look down, trying to spot a potential campsite, comes the moment that could be terminal for Bharat's future employment by Moran Mountain. Bharat is the Forestry Department's local guide who joined us in Lata, replacing Nandan who was unable to continue after being hit by a rock on our ascent to the Tarak Khal.

"Up!" says Bharat, pointing with his stick at a high col to the right of Ronti peak. Confused, we consult our maps. They may be 1:150000 scale, but the Ronti Glacier is definitely down. "Up!" insists Bharat, "Sutol that way!" pointing again with his stick

Another look at the map suggests we could get to the roadhead at Sutol by going over this col, but that would mean completely missing the Ronti Glacier and the Ronti Saddle. Martin would then face a 25km hike back to Trisul base camp. Martin looks at Mangal. The next few minutes are going to be important, "Ronti glacier down". Mangal nods in response. "Has Bharat been this way?". Mangal translates. Bharat's head hovers in that Indian gesture half way between yes and no. "No sir" says Mangal.....

So we head down, and what had looked like meadows from above turns out to be a combination of boulders and streams hiding beneath high vegetation. The only flat place to stop is underneath the overhang of a huge boulder, meaning another bivouac. I am getting used to, even prefer, caves. There is none of the condensation of a tent and I am tired enough that sleep comes easily. After a lunchtime snack, Martin announces he is going to recce tomorrow's route to the glacier, and in that way you can't refuse, suggests I join him. Barring our way is a thick forest of rhododendron.

Leaving the rest to sort out the bivvi, we head up a slope and around the top of the rhododendron, reaching the top of a ridge to look down onto the Ronti Glacier below. I've scraped my shin on a rock, and pull up my trouser leg to look at the damage - there is a decent gash that is dripping blood and what looks like a sizeable bruise. I roll my trouser leg back down. Two weeks ago it would have been a big deal, now it is just what happens, and it is nowhere near the size of the hole that Martin had gouged in his shin a few days before. Turning our attention back to the glacier we can see that the route down is too steep - looking back down the ridge we are on, however, the slope running off to the right looks more promising.

Bharat suddenly appears round the corner, suggesting that the best route is to go further up and then drop down on to the glacier. After his Sutol col gambit our confidence in him has dwindled, so we dismiss the suggestion and start to head down the rhododendron covered ridge to find the point where it will be easiest to cross through them to our preferred route down. The next day's adventures were to prove Bharat right.

As we descend, the rhododendrons covering the ridge get increasingly dense. Getting from clearing to clearing becomes a series of gymnastic moves over and under branches, ice axes being wielded like the machetes we are sorely missing. Move even 10 meters apart and Martin and I easily lose each other, the thick foliage reducing visibility and dampening sound. Eventually we find the point on the ridge where the forest is narrowest, and forging a path we can see a route to the glacier below. Breaking branches and building cairns as markers, we head back to our camp, a riverbed offering the easiest terrain for much of the way.

Arriving back, we find that the others have turned the cramped space beneath the boulder into a four-floor doss - one floor for Martin, one for me and Gary, one for Mangal, Laxman, Manoj and Bharat and the other for the gear. Patrick has also found a pitch for his tent. As on every evening, Mangal produces a huge meal and we settle down beneath a starlit sky in the knowledge that tomorrow will be anything but a short day. We must cross the Saddle and reach Trisul base camp in the next 48 hours or else run out of time and food”

Moran Mountain Trekking Grades

Grade A - aka 'tea house trekking' - Moran Mountain are proud to say that they don't offer this as an option.

Grade B - challenging trekking, participants should have a good level of fitness, be used to winter hillwalking and be prepared to carry medium weight packs. To be honest, Moran Mountain are not sure they offer this either.

Grade C - 'fast and light' - also recognisable from use of the words 'remote', 'adventurous', 'rarely crossed', and a mention of all or any one of Shipton/Tilman/Graham/Murray. These trips are only fast and light in that they are small groups with minimal porter support. Participants can, in fact, expect long days with heavy packs, extreme exposure and nights under the stars. Running out of food, ditching the mess tent because it is too heavy and serious injury are also all a distinct possibility. Those who survive will have an amazing unforgettable adventure, and after about 5 years will only remember the good bits and come back for more

Our camp was a clammy affair. The rain petered out overnight to leave a humid fog. We were perched on a heavily vegetated island between two canyons where glacial streams had cut conglomerate walls. To get to Tarak Khal we had to cross the deeper of the two. Fifty years ago this might have been a relatively simple matter, but time does not stand still in the Himalaya. Ice melt and monsoon floods were carving new landscape here. The river was the main outlet from Dronagiri’s western wall. Last night it was swollen to turbid fury, but this morning the spate had subsided. We left Mangal, Nandan, Laxman and Manoj to finish their breakfast and scouted upstream. The only weakness in the ravine wall was a five-metre vertical wall, studded with boulders. I fixed our 15 metre rope from a solid capstan of rock. The Indian boys went down hand over hand and we lowered their rucksacks down to them. From the end of the line a twenty-metre scree run look them to the river bed and relative safety. Gary, Mike and Patrick took turns to use my harness and abseiled the headwall.
When Patrick detached from the rope the slope around him gave way. I glimpsed him wind-milling his arms in an effort to stay upright while boulders spattered about him. The largest slapped his thigh, but he avoided a headlong tumble down to the river. He was bruised and badly shocked. After a minute’s recovery he crept off sideways. A broken femur would have been game over in this place. He’d been lucky.
I doubled the rope and abseiled last, pulling down the cord so that we still had 12 metres or so for further eventualities. Now we were fully committed to push on over the Tarak Khal and into the Tolma gorge. The far side of the ravine offered a weakness and we bent into a stiff ascent of 300 metres to reach Tarak grazings, our altitude 4150m. We got a brief glimpse of the pass before a curtain of fog was drawn.
A zig-zag path developed in the grassy chute under the pass. At about a hundred metres from the top I heard a terrifying whistle and whirr from above. A fist-sized stone struck Nandan square on the upper arm. He doubled over and wailed, barely able to withstand the pain. A fractured humerus or a dislocated shoulder – neither was a savoury prospect. Had the rock struck a head it would have been an instant killer. As the shock subsided we examined the limb. To his good fortune the bone was bruised but not broken. The contents of Nandan’s sack were redistributed and we load-ferried the last metres to the Tarak Khal.

Gary abseils into the canyon just before the 1st stonefall

The mists part to reveal the Tolma gorge in evening gloom

Mangal, Nandan and the boys gets dinner on at the cave bivouac

Exposed scrambling high above the Tolma gorge

At 4600m there was a bleak chill in the breeze and nothing to be seen down the far side. Our hopes to make a traverse across the head of the Tolma gorge to Dharansi pass were dashed. I nestled our stove in the lee of the marker cairn and brewed mugs of masala chai for everybody. Buoyed by the brew and painkillers both Patrick and Nandan returned to full loads.
At 1.45pm we commenced a fog-shrouded descent, compass bearings set for the diagonal path shown on our old Survey of India map which descended 2000 metres to cross the bed of the gorge near to Tolma village. You can’t wish away two thousand metres – it is a monstrous descent by any standards. Immediately, we encountered a newly-cut trod and our hopes rose. The turfs were turned over by a mattock or hoe.
The trail traversed into ever-steeper terrain. Above 45 degrees angle steep wet grass is as lethal as snow in event of a fall. Small outcrops posed technical complication. The young Indian lads, Laxman and Manoj, lumbering cumbersome 22kg loads and skidding the slopes in plimsolls, coped majestically. This was their college vacation job. They were bright kids, full of hope for their future, and back in their village they had mothers praying for them. The import of our situation struck home. I was responsible for them but could do naught to make their passage safer. Surely we would soon reach gentler terrain?
Come 4pm the mists parted and we heard a faint roar from the river in the main gorge. The terrain was improbably steep. Our saviour path weaved across a succession of ravines and spurs. We drew ice axes as the best and only protection in event of a slip. Gary was particularly affected by the exposure and we two stayed together dropping behind the rest of the team. I peered vainly into the shadows but failed to see any feasible way down to the gorge. The Tolma Ganga was still a thousand metres below, twisting crazily through projecting spurs of slabby schist.
We were enslaved to the damnable trod, which mocked our hopes by climbing 60 metres back uphill. Surely, no sane shepherd would ever bring his flocks up this serpent trail? We reached the brink of a more pronounced canyon. Waiting for Gary, I scanned the fading detail of the slopes below, only to see the pencil-line of the path forking back uphill and over another ridge. Any flickering hopes that we could reach the valley floor by nightfall were snuffed out.
Resigned and weary, we crossed the canyon and began the re-ascent, clutching at tussocks and juniper roots. Dread replaced disappointment as the overriding emotion. Just as I wondered if we’d completely lost touch with the others, Mike appeared coming back over the brow. Had there been an accident?
“We’ve found a cave ten minutes away. It’s a good bivouac. Should we stop there?”
“You bet we should!” I replied.
Never has a Chartered Accountant brought such glad tidings!
Soon, Mangal and the boys were scouring the cliffs above with buckets and plastic bottles for trickles of water.
The evening’s offering of rain was beginning as we checked into our haven. A sandy area several metres wide was protected from drips by an overhanging rock wall. A fringe of bushes protected the outer edge. In all the savage miles of the Tolma gorge we’d found the sole sanctuary. Within an hour we had a meal cooking and a fire ablaze. Given their Scoutng pedigree I expected Mike and Gary to break into chorus of “Ging, Gang, Gooly…” Miraculous Mangal even produced a platter of deep-fried pakora. Our altitude was 3820m. We were less than half-way down, but for now we were home, safe and dry, and tomorrow’s trials could wait their turn.

Mike tackles an exposed passage above the Tolma river

24 hours later - celebratory tea in the sanctuary of Tolma village

12th–24th Aug: Alpine High Peaks - climbing the five high points of five Alpine nations - with Guy Steven and clients Peter, David and Thomas Stone, Jacky Burrows and Tina Nielsen.
All aboard for Liechtenstein! We could barely contain our excitement as we sped out of Zurich airport and into the midday glare. Deputy commandant Guy Steven drove us swiftly though the forested foothills and into the first of our five alpine nations. Our mission? To climb the highest mountain in each. The lowly Grauspitze was first, just 2599m, but dearly beloved by all patriotic Liechtensteiners. A two hour walk from the peaceful resort of Malbun took us through rich cow-grazing meadows into limestone country. The Pfalzer Hut was bustling with weekend trekkers and families. At 2100m it gave us a first taste of altitude. Shattered but impressive peaks lined the onward border with Austria and Switzerland, their summits coated with fresh snows. Our senses sharpened at the sight of wild new country.

Guy enjoys the approach to the Grauspitze - the higher Vorder summit is on the left

The team on summit of Augstenberg with Grauspitze behind (l to r: Guy, Jacky, Thomas, Tina, David, Peter)

The Grauspitze was not easily tamed. A forepeak bars – the Hinter Grauspitze - bars access to the higher Vorder Grauspitze and the connecting ridge was described as “ludicrously exposed” in our “Alpine High Points” guidebook. We decided we would tackle this arête on the way back, and made a scenic but circuitous approach to the south flank by the Barthelemy col and Ijes valley. Guy assured the party that the snow would burn off as we climbed, thereby avoiding any need for the ice axes and crampons that we had left back in our minibus!
The snow lay atop slippery grass which offered a thin overlay to bare limestone slabs. We slithered and clawed our way to the summit ridge, and made a roped scramble to the top, by which point we had done 1000 metres of ascent – so much for an easy first day. The Grauspitze north face was a gigantic whorl of contorted rock strata. Ludicrously exposed would not be an exaggeration. Furthermore, the connecting ridge was crumbled in texture. We were pleased to rope up and practise some belaying skills. From the Hinter summit we returned direct to the hut, surviving a knee-crushing descent and a very close encounter with inquisitive cows. Tall glasses of foaming wheat beer were needed to revive the guides.

The ludricrously exposed ridge (!) between the Grauspitze summits

The 2962m Zugspitze from Hollentalanger Hut

Our onward journey to Germany was complicated by the need to retrieve Thomas’s lost bag from Zurich airport. We trekked back to Malbun in warm sunshine over the 2359m Augstenberg. Thomas’s dad, Peter, and I went back to Zurich while the remainder of the party lounged on the shores of the Bodensee (Lake Constance). Now far behind our schedule Guy drove us hard along the autobahns and into the clouded enchantment of the Bavarian Alps. The walls of the Zugspitze towered imperiously over the pastures of Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Local road-works caused a further hour of delay and it was after 6.30pm when we departed from Hammersbach for a hut walk advertised as 3 hours! Our chances of getting any dinner seemed slim.
The last day-trekkers were streaming back from the Hollental gorge. We paid our 4 Euro entrance fees at the gate and entered the rock-cut galleries which penetrate the canyon. Chill, wet and deserted, the trench was only a few metres metres wide at its narrowest. Blue waters, rich in lime, gushed through the chasm. On both sides cliffs soared for a thousand metres to pinnacles tinged with alpenglow. This was a marvel of nature, brutal yet uplifting in its impact on our road-weary souls.
Happily for us, the Hollentalanger Hut was still serving meals when we pitched in at the back of 9pm. This route up the Zugspitze is a hugely popular and deservedly so. At 7am we joined a continuous stream of parties wending their way through the larches and juniper scrub towards the mountain’s northern wall, where a tiny remnant glacier is harboured at 2300m altitude. Crampons were needed for the glacier slope and then we waited our turn to shin up the wire rope at the randkluft where the ice has retreated to leave smooth walls of rock. Arrival at the summit was a massive anti-climax. The 2962m summit is a cable-car station and to make the mess worse the whole edifice was in process of reconstruction and thronged with a thousand tourists.

Climbing the Zugspitze Glacier

Leaving the Zugspitze glacier to begin the summit via ferrata

Team Stone beneath the Grossglockner

Triglav's 1800m north wall from Aljazev Dom - the Luknja route follows the right skyline and the Tomasinski route weaves down the sunlit walls on the left flank

Nonetheless, nobody complained about the pain-free descent by cablecar and funicular railway. After three hut stays hotel comforts at Garmisch were hugely appreciated.
Guy’s satnav was now set for Austria and in particular the Kals valley where the classic routes to the 3799m Grossglockner commence. We drove out of rain clouds at Innsbruck and into an ordered world of tidy chalets and groomed meadows.
A stiff two-hour walk was hardly sufficient to prepare us for the culinary excesses of the Studl Hut. Rumours of a Michelin-starred chef were not without foundation. We were defeated by a sumptuous 5-course buffet, and could only look fondly at the final platter of fresh fruits and cheeses.
Austria’s highest is notorious for queues. One recent internet blogger reported giving up after a waiting motionless for 90 minutes to cross the gap between the Klein and Grossglockner. Guy took Jacky and Tina up the classic rock ridge of the Studlgrat while the three Stones – Peter, Thomas and David – followed me up the normal route. Glacier travel and some ice work were a refreshment and we got a clear run along the summit ridge to meet Guy on the summit. Swirling mists spoilt the occasion, but we had glimpses of the Dolomites on the southern horizon as we descended.
A shorter drive took us into Slovenia. Despite oppressive heat sight of the jagged limestone peaks of the Julian Alps lent fresh inspiration. A dirt road led six miles up the forested Vrata valley to Aljazev Dom hut. Contrary to our fears the valley looked untrammelled and the facilities were understated. We ate on the hut terrace with the north wall of Triglav in full frame splendour a mile away at the valley-head.
With storms and heavy rain forecast later on Saturday we had to play a waiting game and went down-valley for a short session of rock climbing then retreated to Lake Bled when the rain started. Guy and I enjoyed a row-boat bromance on the lake, large pizzas and ice creams were consumed and we prepared for a pre-dawn start for Triglav with batteries recharged.
Thunder and heavy rain punctuated the night hours but the skies cleared as we left in the twilight. The air was cool and the mountains freshly washed. We saw nobody else on the Luknja route until the summit dome where other routes joined. Summit fogs denied us a view and we descended an impressive line of wires and stanchions to the Triglavski Hut. A coffee revived us for the final descent – 1500 metres of precipitous mountainside billed as a 3 ½ hour outing on the signboards. In search of scenic options, we chose the Tomasinski route in preference to the standard Prag route. I wasn’t remotely prepared for the giddy exposure of this wandering line. We traversed death-defying canyons between isolated pine-clad promontories. The hardest sections were all equipped with wires, stanchions and chiselled steps, but a slip could have been fatal on some of the non-technical scree slopes. We considered putting on the rope but the team looked confident so we didn’t disturb their rhythm. Despite our best efforts we took every minute of the advertised 3 ½ hours to get down to Aljazev Dom. I was bowled over by the beauty of Triglav - 1900 metres of it, up and then down. Steaks, grilled trout, wine and beers were enjoyed in full in Kranjska Gora that evening – all at knock-down prices compared to Austro-Swiss norms. Tina now left us – she had to fly back home to Basel for work.

View down the Trenta valley from the Luknja route on Triglav

The summit of Triglav and Sphinx wall from the Luknja route

And so to Italy! We weren’t climbing a peak here but the autostrada across the northern plains offered our quickest way back to Switzerland. Guy got us well over half-way through his “100 greatest driving tunes ever” playlist on the minibus media player by the time we reached the Simplon Pass.
A cloudless morning displayed Zermatt at its best for the boys, David and Thomas, as they captured their first sight of the Matterhorn. The approach to the Monte Rosa hut is getting ever more complex and tricky as the Gorner Glacier shrinks. What was a 2 ½ hour stroll 20 years now takes 3 ½ hours and requires crampons and rope on one section. The imposing new hut was half empty and we had few fellow contenders for the ascent of the Dufourspitze, at 4634m altitude the crown of Monte Rosa, highest in Switzerland and 2nd highest in the Alps.
Our recent exertions proved sufficient to handle the marked increase in altitude. We ascended the vast glacier slopes to reach the summit ridge in good order. Here we encountered hard ice on the crest. A team passed us at speed brandishing lightweight crampons and ski poles - the “Kilian Jornet” effect in action. We clutched tight to our ice picks and followed with trepidation. Dufourspitze may not be a full AD in grade but it is significantly harder than PD with ice about. We took 1 ½ hours to reach the summit which was now deserted. A full panorama was gifted to us; the only sadness in the scene was the lack of snow and ice. The once-proud Alps were visibly wilting after another dry summer.

Approach to the Monte Rosa Hut and Dufourspitze

On the summit ridge of the Dufourspitze - Matterhorn behind

A 10-hour sleep back at the hut cured the worst of our exhaustion, and, with Tina’s recommendation, and the incentive to avoid considerable extra mountain railway charges, we set out at 7.30 next morning to trek out to Zermatt direct down past the snout of the Gorner Glacier. No better lesson in glacial geomorphology could be devised. Mr Steven led us through bare ice, dry ice, lateral and terminal moraine, and after one tweak to the route we marched off the snout and down to the larch woods of Furi.
Entry to the Zermatt MacDonalds was averted thanks to the suggestion of pizzas at Täsch, and we drove the rush-hour back to Zurich with five peaks in the bag and many memories of mountain magnificence to contemplate. Alpine High Peaks worked – let’s do it again!

10th-12th July: A Walk with Mr Frostbite: We set off up the Dubhs Ridge minus a set of toes and fingers. Nigel Vardy lost his digits from frostbite in a survival epic near the summit of Denali in Alaska in 1999. I’ve known him since he did a winter course with us prior to that fateful trip. After surmounting a long struggle learning to cope with his disability he has turned his misfortune into positive action. He is an ambassador for the Duke of Edinburgh award, lectures everywhere from primary schools to cruise ships and is sponsored by Ordnance Survey and Terra Nova. He has climbed all over the world and was recently returned from a trip to the Ruwenzori mountains of Uganda.

Nigel Vardy at our bivouac in Coire a'Bhasteir at the end of the Traverse

The Cuillin Traverse was an outstanding challenge. Forced to wear fully-stiffened high-mountain boots for support, rock climbing is not his forte and he struggles for balance on scrambling terrain. Nigel did the Matterhorn with us a few years back, but the Cuillin traverse is more prolonged with moments of greater technical difficulty. We decided that a three-day schedule was sensible and thankfully the weather forecast obliged. We were promised fine conditions with no threat other than the odd rogue shower.

We chose the ‘royal route’ to begin the traverse. Few sights are more inspiring than the peaks of the Ridge viewed from the deck of the Misty Isle as she plies from Elgol towards the landing jetty at Loch Scavaig. The pointed peaks of Gars Bheinn and Sgurr Dubh Mor plunge into the cauldron of Cor’uisg, as if they have been lopped by a scythe. The rest of the ridge forms a ring of fire ending in the crenellated pyramid of Gillean. If this scene doesn’t set your pulse racing you are not a mountaineer!

Over coffee and biscuits with skipper James, we decided to minimise yomping and maximise the climbing by starting our traverse with the Dubhs Ridge rather than the tedious climb over Gars-Bheinn and Sgurr nan Eag. Within an hour we were roping up at the base of the boiler-plate Dubhs slabs just 150 metres above sea level. Nigel adopted a unique style of slab climbing. Unable to smear his soles he levered up on the toes of his Sportiva Nepal boots while clamping his bulbous finger stumps on any available rugosity. The technique worked. We lunched at Sgurr Dubh Beag, and made serene progress over Sgurr Dubh Mor, roped in alpine fashion so that I could check Nigel if he ever stumbled.

Before the T-D Gap I left Nigel and dropped to the spring at the head of Coir’ a Ghrunnda to fill our seven litres of water bottles ready for our first bivouac. The extra weight was trying but spared me any worries as to where we might stop for the night. So much of the stress of traversing the Cuillin Ridge is the pressure of time - getting to the gear stash or reaching one of the few sources of water near to the route. With everything on our backs we could relax.

Rarely have I encountered the T-D Gap in benign condition, but this afternoon was one such occasion. The rock was warm and the wind was light. Climbing without a sack in rock shoes makes a big difference. On a sea-level outcrop the pitch might indeed be only Very Difficult rather than the Hard Severe grade that it usually feels. I hauled our water-laden bags and Nigel scuttled up the crux chimney, jamming his big boots into the off-width crack and using his long reach to clench the handrail at the top.

Looking south-eastwards to the mainland a grey bank of shower cloud shrouded the hills. The mass advanced slowly towards us but produced only a few desultory droplets before sinking back again. We stopped for the night at a large stone circle on the Bealach Coire Lagan directly under An Stac and the In Pinn. As we brewed a rich alpenglow fired the walls of Sgurr MhicChoinnich and Alasdair for several minutes, and smudged every north-western facet of the Blaven group. Nigel was glad to pull off boots and he laid his foot stumps out on his mat like two plates of meat. Foot-care is vital to his mountaineering success. In particular, he must avoid chafing his skin-grafts. Fresh socks and regular airing are essential.

The Cuillin Traverse certainly wears you down! Nigel's feet airing after day one

Alpenglow round Coire Lagan at 9.45pm from our first bivouac

A well-earned view! Sunset over Blaven from our bivouac

We were on the In Pinn at 8am next morning and meandered pleasantly over the middle three Munros – Banachdich, Ghreadaidh and Mhadaidh. Our pace was only 10% less than the norm with a fit fully-digitised climber. Nigel had the further strengths of stamina and experience. He had recently spent a 24-hour day on the Ruwenzori shepherding a struggling South African companion up and down a 5000 metre peak. He recounted his 18-hour epic getting off Ama Dablam in Nepal after a summit attempt that failed just 100 metres from the summit. He wasn’t going to fade like some!

With daylight available until 10.30pm I began to wonder whether we might not need a bivouac before the finish. I had a cache of two 5-litre water bottles on Bealach na Glaic Mhoire. We used one to replenish our supplies and brew a coffee, perfectly complemented by a slice of chocolate brownie. After working carefully across the turrets of Bidein Druim nan Ramh we reached the cave before An Caisteal at 5pm. I had tagged this as our minimum target for the day, but we had all the evening to forge ahead. A sudden switch from light southerlies to brisk and chill northerly breezes complicated this strategy. A haar cloud formed over the northern peaks of the Ridge. I knew of no sheltered bivouac places at the northern end. We would have a miserable night if we slept out on the crest, and would face the last crux of the Bhasteir Tooth in depleted condition.

Faced with a dilemma it is usually best to be bold. “We’ll stop for hot food and then push to the end,” I told Nigel. We hit the fog at Bruach na Frithe and dipped down the south side of Bealach nan Lice in search of a nook to brew-up. The wind funnelled through every gap in the rocks. We squeezed into a cleft and fired up the Jetboil stove to brew sweetened tea followed by tuna and noodles with chow-mein sauce. Fuelled and fully dressed in all our clothing layers we scrambled across to the base of the Tooth. Surprisingly, the face was sheltered. The wind-flow was being wholly siphoned through the col.

Naismith’s Route seems to get scarier by the year, or am I getting older? Since the bracket has fallen off the crux it is necessary to traverse further right and surmount a big flake, itself of limited lifespan, before edging back left long a handrail. I placed a runner for the upward move but immediately had to remove it to avoid rope drag and minimise the swing potential for Nigel. A leader fall here would end in more than tears. I was relieved to reach the final flake and fix two sure runners for the exit moves. Nigel followed my lead with complete conviction. On thinner moves he has to trust in hand-grips that he can’t really feel.

A twilight gloom gathered as we made the final climb to Gillean sometime after 10pm. The temperature dropped a notch and my spectacle lenses instantly fogged over, adding to the epic feel of the finale. We groped our way back to the Bealach a’Bhasteir, collected our sacks and stumbled down into the corrie on night vision in search of level grass and some shelter from the wind. The zig-zags of the scree path showed as a vague whitening against the darker rocks around. Come midnight we reached the flats of Coire a’Bhasteir. The wind was left to the heights. We found an area of dry firm turf, scoffed the rest of the brownies and laid out to sleep.

A brush of kindly sunlight woke me at 6am. Brumes of fog still streamed over the Ridge above but elsewhere a glorious day was breaking forth. We stretched out and luxuriated while the tea brewed. These were intoxicating minutes of repose and triumph. Our corrie was a warm and peaceful sanctuary. All we now had to do was stroll down to the road and the finish. Well done Nigel! He was a happy man, as was I, on completion of my 40th successful Ridge traverse.

Read more about Nigel, his life, adventures and speaking engagements on MrFrostbite.com

Welcome to Drizzleland: Delhi had just suffered a blast of 40 deg C + temperatures but our arrival induced a distinctly Scottish feel to the Indian weather. On the Meerut road we passed a water-park attraction inspirationally named “Drizzleland, setting the tone for the damp chill that enveloped us up in the Alaknanda valley. “Hug your kids when in home, belt them when in car” proclaimed the latest safety slogan of the Border Roads Organisation on the National Highway from Rishikesh to Joshimath . The road was quiet, awaiting the opening of Badrinath and Kedarnath temples that would herald the start of the pilgrim season. By Chamoli we could see fresh snow on the hilltops and we sought sanctuary in down jackets on disembarking at the roadhead of Lyari in the Kalpeshwar valley. A 30-minute walk brought us to the gates of the valley’s most salubrious lodging, the Kalp Palace Hotel. A “de-luxe” stay was promised. Our French recruit, Stephanie, dived straight into the shower room in naïve expectation of hot water for her first hair shampoo, while we shivered on the terrace pondering the likely depth of snow at the forest margins. Dinner surpassed expectations, a delicious concoction of home-grown vegetables. We assumed that our greens did not include any of the copious fronds of marijuana plants that trellised every wall and fence in the village.

The Valley of Oaks: Our team of 16 horses arrived at the Palace at 8.30am. The horsemen were doubtful that their beasts could handle the crossing of the 3950m Mainwa Khal. The pass was the only way to get into the Kalapani valley. Two days of fine weather were forecast for a leisurely climb to Bansi Narayan temple but more snow was due on the day of the crossing.
Our only insurance against the failure of horse transit lay in a group of four teenage porters that I had recruited from the nearby Nandakini valley – Puskar, Manoj, Madan and Laxman. According to my plan these boys would ferry loads wherever the horses feared to tread. With his goatee beard, long scarf and red leather jacket Puskar looked fit to grace the hipster bars of Chelsea. What Manoj lacked in style he surpassed with cheek and impudence. “Good morning, sirrr….. how are you?” he crowed at every meeting. Madan was the dopey one, “Battery sir; solar charger”, his sole English phrases as he waved his defunct mobile phone in my face. Laxman, was even younger than the others, a probable absconder from school exams. The deal was eight hundred rupees each a day and as much as they could eat. We ended up owing them a great deal more!
Our way took us over a 3000m col to Kalgot village, then up a beautiful valley adorned with banj oak trees and a dancing rivulet of snowmelt. The rhododendrons were just coming into flower at Bansi Narayan. The temple is dedicated to Lord Vishnu, the presiding deity of these ranges. We perched on the doorway plinth and indulged some peak spotting. Hathi Parbat, Dunagiri, Changabang, Nanda Devi and Trisul were all in view.

Peak-spotting at Bansi Narayan temple

Kalgot village - our first camping spot on trek

Shovelling Snow over the Mainwa Khal: After two days of bliss came the crunch. The ascent to Mainwa Khal was only 400 metres over a 2km distance, yet there were intermittent patches of soft spring snow. We set out early with shovels to dig out a firm path. In the first flush of morning the Kalapani peaks stood proud on the northern horizon, a heavenly host of peaks in fresh raiment fringed by wispy clouds. This would not last. We knew a blizzard was forecast for midday. Time was of the essence.
The horses soon caught up. Their minders were most caring for the welfare of their animals, yet made a big effort on our behalf. The caravan was brought to a halt a hundred metres before the col. An hour and a half of furious shovelling ensued. Everyone got involved – our team of ten, our high-altitude porters, Mangal and Heera, the horsemen, and of course our four young musketeers. Only our cook, Naveen, demurred. He nursed his pot-belly across the chaos with imperious disdain. His work would start if and when we made camp. The air was charged with tension and first peals of thunder sounded, followed by flurries of damp snow. The horses inched to the top, and we dashed over to the far side. Here the trail was broad and gentle but topped with half a foot of snow. A glorious splash of flat green meadow lay 300 metres below, the perfect campground. With another half an hour of graft we were clear of the snow. The horses moved forward for five minutes but then abruptly stopped. The trail had become an impassable trough of glutinous red clay. Not even the most dispassionate horse-flogger would have considered continuing. All forty loads were dismounted.
Team spirit kicked in. We carried all essential kit for the night down to the meadows in huge loads. The porters went back for a second carry before nightfall. Base camp was yet a full day’s march away. Our predicament was unenviable, yet there was a sense of freedom to know that the expedition’s fortunes now lay solely in our hands.

Mangal Hour: From Mainwa camp at 3660m the trail made a depressingly long descent through rhododendron groves into the Gangartoli Gad. Mangal had previously reconnoitred the approach. While the others retrieved loads from the horse-dump, my co-leader Dave “Sharpey” Sharpe, Gavin, Steph and I followed Mangal down to Godhila bridge at 3340m.
“From here sir, two hours to base camp. Along a little, cross river, up a little; no problem,” went the Mangal mantra.
The valley was straight and V-shaped, then disappeared round a corner into snowy climes. For three kilometres we strolled pleasantly along grassy banks.
“Now one hour,” smiled Mangal with reassurance. I couldn’t for the life of me spot anywhere that could host a base camp in the next two miles.
A rougher ride led to a crossing of the river, a clear blue torrent of playful dimensions. A mile of devilish brushwood ensued.
“Maybe one and a half hour…” admitted Mangal. “Up there behind ridge…”
A seemingly interminable ascent of 300 metres took us to the ridge.
‘Mangal hour’ is certainly not ‘happy hour’
“Here base camp,” announced Mangal. Relief at the end of effort was overtaken by despondency at sight of snow-covered terraces, tight packed into the bend in the valley, a sunless windy spot. At least for Stephanie there was a stream nearby for refreshing shampoos. Despite the aesthetic short-comings the site was ideally placed where the terrain became truly alpine, the height 3950m. Upstream we spotted hints of snow-peaks among the afternoon mists. Unladen, the return took us all of 3½ hours.

Mainwa camp looking up to the Kalapani peaks

Above: A morning's haul of Keeda Jadi - probable value £100

Right: The Kalapani skyline from Snowcock Peak - our camp visible below the snow dome in left foreground; Vishnu Killa (5960m) on left and Pk 5882m on right skyline

Our porter boys - Puskar, Madan and Manoj

Best View Ever…: Over two days base camp was established and Naveen installed in his cook tent. This den would become a source of culinary delight and increasing squalor over the next 12 days. Our team showed its mettle. Everyone carried personal loads of 20kg up to base. The Nandakini four were now set to task to ferry all remaining loads across from Mainwa camp.
“Cold, sir; very cold…” was the new complaint. “Campmat please, sir.” Manoj had honed his acting skill to give a convincing rendition of rheumatic pain. We were quickly fleeced of all spare insulation. Puskar stayed cool and sported a freshly waxed moustache. A waxed jacket might have been more help to him. On every return journey they got a drenching in the afternoon hailstorms.
To add to the trip’s social dimension the hills were alive with the sound of expectorating keeda jadi hunters. The seasonal sweep of the slopes for the highly-prized aphrodisiac caterpillar fungus had begun. A handful of fungus tails, a reasonable haul from a morning’s work, can fetch close on £100 on the Chinese medicine market. The local men were out in force, so well camouflaged in their wool jackets that visits to our camp toilet were fraught with peril. No sooner were trousers dropped than a keeda jadi man would pop up out of the undergrowth, a particularly distressing experience for the three girls in our team.
After a cold nights the walk up-valley to the snout of the Kalapani Glacier was a delightful prance on hard-frozen snow. The valley opened into a broad lower stretch. Then the 800 metre icefall reared up to an assemblage of high peaks, all unclimbed and unexplored to our knowledge. A shapely peak of 4788m guarded the entrance to this wonderland. On our second day we left camp en-masse at 4.30am. A man named Sharpe should not be trusted with a knife. He sliced the top of his finger while trying to fix Stephanie’s crampon. Despite a lengthy delay to staunch the blood we topped out on our peak at 10am. The views both near and far were stupendous. The Vishnu range presents a frontal wave of corrugated gneiss to the south. We were standing on but one protrusion. To see the strata snaking away eastwards through the massif induced a feeling of giddiness.
Richard, whose upbringing in Bolton precludes loquacity, was moved to exclamation.
“That’s the best view I’ve ever seen in my life…”. This sentiment was to be repeated several times in coming days.

Peak 4788m - our route followed the ramp from right up left to the summit

The team rest during the ascent of Pk 4788m with the Kalapani icefall and peaks behind

Through the Furnace: With preliminaries over we could get stuck into the main meat of the expedition. Dave Woods was troubled and restricted by a nerve impairment in his neck and shoulder, and decided to withdraw from the trip to save further damage. The rest of us made a camp at 4400m under the icefall and endured an evening lashing of hail. Extrication from iced tents and packing took us two hours in the night. Heera and Mangal were expected to come up from base camp with loads of food, hardware and tents to join us at 3am. Struggling to break fresh trail in the aftermath of the storm they did not reach us until 4.30am, way beyond the safe starting time for a shaded icefall ascent. We commenced in knowledge that we’d be caught by the sun less than half-way up.
“Can there be any other sport where you expend so much effort to move so slowly?” Richard was waxing philosophical as we wilted in the heat somewhere around 5000m. Imagine the ‘Marathon des Sables’ run at high-altitude with an 18kg pack.
Sharpey led the way, weaving through fields of crevasses and white séracs. The terrain was as beautiful as it was merciless. We headed towards a levelling under a large rock rognon only to find our anticipated camp-site threatened by higher séracs.
I took over the lead guiding Heera, Mangal and Gav up a steeper slope away from danger. Glancing behind I saw that Heera was displaying his habitual inattention to the rope.
“Take the rope tight,” I ordered. Barely had Heera grabbed the rope than I plunged neck-deep through a flimsy bridge of snow to find myself dangling over a crevasse void, supported solely by my flailing arms. Heera pulled the rope so tight that my privates were severely crushed. I looked down despairingly to Mr Sharpe who lounged in the snow 50 metres below, watching my performance with amusement rather than concern. Some self-help was urgently required lest I drop out of reach. I twisted round, and kicked into ice on the crevasse wall. With that precarious purchase I inched both body and sack out of the hole.
Come 1pm we reached safe gentle slopes at 5355m altitude and collapsed in gratitude. Prodigious cumulo-nimbus clouds were towering above us up to 30,000 feet altitude. New storms were coming. Heera and Mangal needed to get back down the icefall as quickly as possible. While we brewed tea for them they emptied the contents of their sacks.
“Where’s the food?” I asked.
“What food sir?” the reply.
Some 20kg of rations, our sustenance for the next six days had been left in base camp. We were left with just brews and a few snacks.
“No problem sir; will bring tomorrow.” Mangal exuded his usual brave confidence, but, looking into his tired eyes I could tell there was a problem. How could they subject themselves to another torturous 1400 metre climb that very night? Yet without the food our ship would founder.
The storm broke with a vengeance just minutes after we erected our last tent, and heavy snowfall accompanied by gusting winds lasted well into the night. This was commitment. Heera and Mangal now faced 15cm of fresh snow on their re-ascent. To add to their woes the morning brought renewed suffocating heat and Mangal radioed that he had twisted his leg in a hole.
We assembled a rescue party. Dave, Ruth, Rich, Gav and I roped up and descended 400 metres back into the icefall to meet them. They were clearly at the end of their tether and immensely grateful to see us. We took three purgatorial hours to regain our high camp, but how good did that food taste – foil-packed curries followed by cake and custard! At last we could go climbing.

Kalapani Left Twin: “Vive la France” yelled Stephanie at 5am. News had just come through on our radio that France had elected not to become a fascist country. Having spent the past 36 hours in high-altitude sloth she was energised to join our first climb on the left of twin peaks on the Kalapani watershed.
Richard’s partner, Aoife, was unable to come. She had suffered sunburn during the icefall epic. A day indoors was essential.
Sharpey went ahead with Steph and Rich. Gav and Joe formed their own rope behind my team of Ruth and David Wolfe. Our climb started just half-an-hour from camp and followed the rocky skyline of the peak. Freed from heavy loads we enjoyed three hours of mountaineering delight – firm snow, interesting grade II rocky steps, good belays and magnificent views westwards beyond the confines of the Kalapani valley to Pandosera and the Kedarnath ranges – a PD+ to savour.
“If this was the Alps it would be mobbed,” observed Mr Sharpe.
Indeed, we had found a mini-paradise, the climb all the better for its brevity with no desperate struggles and no fear of epic descent. The climb finished at a short knife-edge where the Panpatia and Chaukhamba peaks came in view. The summit altitude was exactly 5700m. We returned to camp just as the clouds gathered for their afternoon storm-show. More of the same please!

Snowcock Peak: Our next objective was identified as 5532m on our maps, a shapely ridge of snow with no obvious technical difficulty. Aoife joined the fray her face wrapped in in scarf and buff, but Joe was afflicted by nausea and dropped at the bergschrund under the summit. We left camp at 4.30am. The day’s dawn was tempered by drapes of mist. The summit ridge was exposed high above the Kalapani Glacier and the following teams emerged from the fogs in silhouette with a Nanda Devi skyline behind.
Having claimed what we think is first ascent of the peak, the second ascent was claimed 10 minutes later by a waddling grouse, probably a Himalayan snow-cock, who followed our trail up the arête and watched us quizzically as we lounged on the top block.
We were back to camp at 9am, sweltered through the morning sun, then relaxed indoors as the afternoon storms gathered momentum.

Kalapani Right Twin: The prize peak of the range is Peak 5882m. Dave Sharpe, Dave Wolfe and Gav planned a midnight start for an attempt but the evening snowfall was so heavy that they abandoned their plan. Instead, we would all get up at 3am and go together for the right-hand of the twin peaks. I think we all felt better to be sharing an accessible peak rather than splitting up.
For Right-Twin, Sharpey, Steph and Ruth headed direct up a mixed face of Scottish grade II, while the rest of us climbed a grade I couloir to the left and tackled the west ridge of the peak. For a second day running Joe was forced to give up at the start of the difficulties and returned to camp on his own.
Our west ridge had a real Eigerish feel. The crest was fiercely steep so I traversed into a slim couloir to its right. Fresh powder snow overlay slabby rocks, giving the feeling of insecurity so resonant of alpine north faces. I took special delight in placing two pegs for security. This was the first venture to grade III climbing for Aoife. She quelled any urge to panic as feet skidded and quickly learnt the skill of wide-bridging and a “push don’t pull” technique with the arms. A bank of deeper snow nearly defeated her at the top, but, with Rich, Gav and David in tow, she reached the top just after the Sharpe team had vacated the crowning roost.
The summit was a sharp arête of shattered rock at 5685m altitude. To get a team of four back down the ridge a dependable abseil point had to be found. I excavated the choss and found a solid block plus a subsidiary spike for a back-up anchor. Soon we were all hanging in unison, stacked and ready to go, our cramponned feet scratching an exiguous ledge.
There were so many projecting flakes and spikes on the abseil line that I expected to the ropes to jam on retrieval, but they pulled through like a dream as if to confirm a blessing from the gods. After three lovely little climbs in three days we were back in camp at midday and could relax in contentment.

Pk 5898 (left) and 7138m Chaukhamba from the 1st pass on the 4-Cols Tour

The Four Cols Tour: The final phase planned for the trip was an exploratory trek starting over a col between the Kalapani and Panpatia basins. Perusal of maps suggested that a complete circuit of the range could be made, with onward crossings from Panpatia to the Maindagalla and Barma valleys, and thence back over the shoulder of Peak 4788m and down to the Kalapani and base camp. The first two passes were probably virgin and we could only guess at their probable difficulty. We envisaged taking two days to traverse all four.
Joe needed to get some lower altitude so joined David, Ruth, Richard, Aoife and me for the trek. Gav and Steph stayed behind with Sharpey, to make another attempt on the challenging summit of Peak 5882m and to clear our high camp. In the latter regard there was particular enthusiasm among our Gallic membership to scream “gardez l’eau” and cast the bagged contents of our camp toilet down the nearest deep crevasse. Sadly the attempt on Peak 5882m petered out at 5700m in face of fatigue and crusted snow, but Stephanie was able to fulfil her wish.
We six left camp at 4.35am on 14th May and enjoyed a serene glacial passage to the first col at 5510m. A flaming dawn had just broken over Chaukhamba. A 40 metre descent of 50deg snow took us down to the untrodden glacier on the north side. Using the hard crust David Wolfe marched us swiftly down the glacier slope crossing below the Kalapani twins. Immediately to our north the unclimbed turret of Pk 5898m, a worthy objective for any future expedition to the area.
The sunlight hit us at 6.45am and produced an immediate enervating effect. There were several potential cols along the western edge of the glacier and in view of the rising heat I plumped for the first available crossing. We reached the pass at 7.15am to find a simple slope on the far side that led to the Maindagalla Glacier. Our new valley was ringed by beautiful rock pinnacles. The rolling glacier led us gently down to a steeper snout. We unroped, stowed rope and clothing and staggered downwards through a disintegrating crust of snow to reach a levelling at 4650m. Up to our left a prominent thumbnail of rock marked the entrance to our third pass. Suddenly afflicted by the blinding sunlight and stifling heat we made camp. Hail showers commenced at 12.30pm and intensified through the afternoon. By nightfall 20 cm of fresh snow had fallen. We ate our last dinner and realised that whatever the weather the ‘thumbnail’ pass offered our only way home.
Sometime in the early night I stumbled outside barefooted for a pee and spotted the lights of distant villages down the Kedarnath side. The storm was clearing.
Collective enthusiasm to sample Naveen’s cooking at the earliest opportunity got us up at 2am and away by 3.45am. Base camp was less than 6km direct distance away. The 2km trudge to the pass took us three hours. At least the snow was deep and predictable rather than crusted. Thumbnail col measured 5005m in altitude. Mellow morning sunshine hit us down at 4700m on the Barma valley flanks. The fresh snow quickly became a treacherous wet layer overlying old crust. We put on crampons to descend a rocky 40 deg slope until we were level with the familiar outline of Peak 4788m.
“Would anyone who is training for a mountain marathon like to take over the lead on the last traverse?” I asked.
Ruth Wolfe had made the earlier admission that she was doing the Highland Cross event in June. She had no option but to comply and set to with a will. Her effort was typical of the commitment shown by all members on this trip. The enterprise had felt like real team mountaineering without the jostling of egos that often mars the joy of ventures to loftier objectives. Within an hour we were over a final col at 4550m, and on the homeward run down the Kalapani. As we descended we saw Dave Sharpe, Steph and Gav making their final descent of the icefall. We were reunited under Naveen’s good care for a late lunch.
Were it transposed to the Alps our ‘Four Cols’ route would be an instant classic.

Winding Up: Our four young porters were already plying the route from base camp to Mainwa Khal, returning our kit to a pick-up point for our horses. For all their moaning and studied nonchalance they had proved a loyal and worthy bunch. We might hope they find a future life beyond the drudgery of portering. In two more days we were rested, packed and homeward bound after the happiest of trips.

17th – 21st March: Strength through Misery – Scotland’s last winter burst
The winter of 2017 passed with barely a whimper. We had enjoyed long spells of dry weather, snowfalls were light and short-lived and climbing opportunities were largely restricted to higher level ridge and buttress climbs. Then, as March arrived, when most clients believed the snows would altogether disappear and our courses were barely half-filled, true Winter returned. So often this happens. These lambing snows combine with longer days and more generous sunlight to give splendid mountaineering conditions.

If asked who are my best clients, I choose those who are decisive in action, book early, stick with their plans, arrive in a mood of positivity and take what the weather gives without complaint. Dave and Sue Pugh and Carl Hess had been regulars since 2012. Dave and Sue completed the Munros in a three-year campaign after I’d guided Sue up the In Pinn. Dave had climbed the Matterhorn with me last summer in a round trip from a camp at Schwarzsee thereby avoiding extortionate Hornli Hut charges – not bad at 67 years of age. Carl and Dave had recently completed our technical winter climber course. For Yorkshire-folk this bunch were notable in their largesse towards an ageing mountain guide, either that or they’ve got some good pension policies!

They arrived in mid-March for four days with a new recruit to their group, Lynne, a retired physiotherapist. Dave and Sue are great organisers and have assembled an informal club of walking enthusiasts in North Yorkshire, some of whom are allowed to progress to the Scottish hills after passing initiations in the Lakes and Dales. One of their fringe members, a cynical soul, described the spirit of the cabal as “Strength through Misery”.

The first day of their visit was a 1:1 guiding trip with Sue to utilise a Christmas guiding gift voucher. She had taken a serious tumble on Blaven the previous year, resulting in a helicopter rescue. Someone – I think it was Dave – had the bright idea that a day out with me would be the perfect antidote to the shock of the fall. We had provisionally earmarked Ledge Route on Ben Nevis as a suitable mountaineering challenge. I gave Sue the weather prediction – steady snowfall for most of the day – and noted the long journey-time from Lochcarron – fully expecting a change of plan, but no; I got an instant response. “Ben Nevis, please!”

The weather materialised exactly as forecast. More people were coming down from Ben Nevis than were going up. We trudged up to the base of the route, as large snow-flakes drifted down in increasing volume, and dodged a soft snow-slough at the base of No 5 Gully. With the new snow already a foot in depth and mindful of a recent avalanche epic in Norway, I felt distinctly unhappy. I was glad to quit the gully and get on to the relative security of Ledge Route. The climb proceeded in misted silence, save for the odd muffled shout from a party across on the Douglas Boulder.

At the summit of Carn Dearg the temperature rose five degrees in as many minutes. The snow turned to rain, and I made the questionable decision to descend the north ridge of the mountain as opposed to a circuitous route via the Tourist Path and half-way lochan. Sue was subjected to a harrowing hour – soft wet slab over hard neve snow, followed by endless steep screes covered with inches of damp snow. By the time we reached the Allt a’Mhulinn we were sufficiently drenched to laugh at the added ignominy of a thigh-deep river crossing. To my relief Sue seemed immensely satisfied at this beast of a day.

Back in Torridon the snow still lay thick to low levels. Joined by Dave, Carl and Lynne we headed up to Beinn Eighe the next morning. We found one patch of old neve snow under the fresh coating near to the top of Spidean Coire nan Clach, so could do some avalanche hazard evaluation and ice axe arrest before heading out east towards the Black Carls pinnacles. The weather steadily cleared to give an afternoon of bracing splendour. The Carls were in true Alpine condition and I gave Dave and Carl the opportunity to lead the girls across on their own independent rope while I supervised operations. Cast into the spotlight the fellas were initially reluctant to take control, but with some hectoring from their guide, they eventually realised their responsibilities. It is a delight when a newcomer to Scottish winter mountaineering gets an inspiring day to begin. Lynne clearly loved the whole affair right through to the exit march through the Allt a’Chuirn pinewoods.

Sunday morning brought none of the joys of the Black Carls. Steady penetrating rain marshalled our approach plod towards Sgurr an Lochain in Glen Shiel. We sploshed and squelched up endless slopes of grass and slime. At the shoulder Sue and Dave succumbed to the temptations of lunch at the Cluanie Inn and left us to our woes. Cold rain soaked my gloves and chilled my hands. I had one pair of dry mittens in my bag to sustain my spirit through gully, summit and descent. To preserve that crumb of comfort I walked bare-handed all the way to the base of Flying Gully on the north face. A dirty avalanche slide from the mouth deterred any probing in that direction and we continued to a shorter grade II gully higher on the face. My exposed fingers burnt and glowed but somehow kept their circulation, and then we felt a drying in the air. The front had passed and the wind was swinging to a more palatable nor’wester. On went the mitts, and I clambered over a little cornice to meet a cheek-scrubbing blast of hail on the summit.

Then, the clouds parted and shafts of warm sunlight lit up the mossy swards and lingering snow-fields. We walked back over a second Munro, Sgurr a’Doire Leathain, the wind behind and snow firm and the world in glorious unison. Perhaps this was “elation through misery” and I was almost disappointed that the day ended so soon. We were back on the road at 3.30pm.

Traversing the Black Carls of Beinn Eighe - Dave, Lynne, Sue and Carl

A final day with the Yorkshire foursome took us back to Torridon and Liathach. Squalls with winds in excess of 60mph were predicted by the Mountain Weather Information Service. One could never accuse the perpetrator of this forecast of excessive optimism. We opted to shelter in Way Up Gully in Coire Dubh Mor. The snow was solid and once more Dave and Carl were given rope-minding duties. Squalls there were, but with nothing like the frequency or severity predicted. From the gully exit we continued to the summit of the peak and returned along the eastern ridge.

While the Yorkshire team could now relax I was only four days though a six-day stint. At 8am next morning I met my new client, Neil, in Strathcarron. Winter wasn’t giving up just yet. Blizzards to low levels were on the card and for once the mountain forecast didn’t exaggerate. At 64 years old Neil is close to completion of a remarkable and entirely pointless campaign to climb every peak in Britain with a couple of contours of supremacy over their surrounds – Dawsons I believe they are called. There are 2400 of these excrescences and Neil has done 2000 to date.

Now he wanted to recapture some of the thrills of past winter climbs. Grade III Scottish climbs on a wild day are a different kettle of fish to hill-top wandering. The Right-End Buttress on Fuar Tholl seemed the only local choice with a semblance of security. Throughout our laboured approach powder snow slides drifted down the mountain’s South-East Cliff – one every minute. These playful veils harboured a growing avalanche threat. I began to feel uneasy but knew my buttress well enough to believe we could get up and out safely. Neil did well to surmount the tenuous lower pitches. Compact slabby rock deceives and then repels any frontal attack. You have to wander and probe to find the climbable weakness in each little sandstone tier. Neil struggled to find purchase in the deeper snows of the upper pitches. Vigorous thrusts of the axes and core strength were required to overcome the prevailing mush.

Windslab snow coated the final 40 metres. I was glad of my prior knowledge of each good belay anchor and topped out at the only point in the corrie rim that was free of fresh cornice. Five hours had passed since we roped up. Already the time was past 4pm. The summit offered scant salvation. A 40mph wind greeted my arrival. I placed an ice axe belay and hunkered down in the snow, my hood drawn tight against my pinched cheeks and eyes clamped shut against the whirling blasts of spindrift. Neil seemed to take an eternity to get up the final pinch. My bum was ice-cold by the time he emerged from the depths. With little ado we shivered and shuffled over to the south-east ridge descent

Hopes of a fireside night were fast dwindling. Neil stuttered and stumbled, his thigh muscles spent. On one fall he broke both his trekking poles. At this pace I couldn’t get myself warmed up. Despite the urge to charge ahead I needed to encourage my companion. For Neil the day was clearly a watershed experience, a realisation of one’s declining powers while the mountain remains fearsomely strong. Though just five miles from my home we were enveloped in a world where survival is the sole imperative. That thought gave some inspiration as we slithered down the final slopes to the pines and rhododendron thickets above Achnashellach. We reached the railway line ten minutes before the evening train was due to pass. Thank goodness I remembered the timetable.

The pause allowed us to reflect. Battered and weakened we cancelled our plans to climb the next day. We might have reflected on the day’s enterprise as a misjudgement, yet we do need to meet our limits from time to time. The motto “Strength through Misery” will get you a long way in the mountains but it won’t work for ever!

Despite a combined age of 130 I sensed that Dennis and Pete were the types who liked an adventure. I had spotted a big lick of green ice up in a bowl at 1200m in the upper reaches of Stondalen. The icefall looked vertical for at least 60 metres and was perched 300 metres above the access road, presenting a serious approach walk by Norwegian standards. We could reasonably guess it was unclimbed and the boys were immediately enthused. After three days with temperatures at -10degC or lower a steady deterioration was forecast for our day with gales and snowfall due by early afternoon. We went for a 7am departure from Aurland on the reckoning that we could be up and off the route before anything nasty happened.

Den and Pete are Staffordshire lads and thus inclined to address each other by the endearment “duck”. I had believed this familiarity was only appropriate to members of the opposite sex, but clearly this rule had long been abandoned in the Potteries.
“You all right, duck.” “Do you want to go first, duck.” “I’m not happy here, duck.”
I had been subjected to a barrage of ducks all week.

We parked by the Stondalen hydro-plant and broke a deepening trail diagonally up 40deg approach slopes to gain a ramp under a cliff band. Leaving our ski poles here, I tied on to our two ropes and ran the rope 40 metres up the ramp to a belay point in an icy niche. The technical difficulty barely warranted a rope, but it felt right to take precautions as the exposure increased. A leaden sky was now issuing desultory waves of fine snow. We moved together for a further 80 metres with an ice screw as a running anchor until a steeper tongue of ice demanded proper pitched climbing. The tongue led into a miniature amphitheatre under the main fall. True to impressions the fall was largely vertical and formed of glassy smooth ice, without any niches or ledges.

We could now feel the wind gusts as the snowfall intensified. The bad weather was arriving early. An ominous atmosphere, resonant with so many stormy days back in Scotland, took command. I racked the gear, put Den on belay and Pete on camera duty and hastened to the task. I romped the first 20 metres placing only two ice screws. At this stage the climbing was utterly brilliant and I felt in total control. Then the angle rose from a pleasant 80 degrees into a vertical groove of sheer bullet-proof ice.

Clinging tight to the axe handles my fingers began to lose circulation, bringing the insidious pain of wounded nerve-ends. Fighting the fire, I bridged up the groove, shaking out after each upward lurch and wishing I’d bothered to attach safety lanyards to my axes. At such a juncture it isn’t at all helpful to think of the consequences of a fall, but adding in rope stretch I was reckoning on a plunge of at least 10 metres should I relinquish my grip. This was no place to break a leg, so I battled the stress and placed an ice screw. My spectacles were now completely caked in snow. I swiped them off and suffed them down my jacket, restoring vision, albeit blurred.

The crisis passed as the angle eased back off vertical and a tingling flush of blood returned to my fingers. I made my belay up left on an ice pulpit about 15 metres below the top, then realised that either Den or Pete could have quite a swing if they came off. They climbed about five metres apart, their figures shrouded by spindrift. Grunts, expletives and several “ducks” were exchanged between the pair. Den slipped once at the exit from the crux, Pete got up the crux but managed to fall off completely at the point of maximum swing potential five metres below the stance. He clattered under a fringe of icicles and became entwined with a six foot stalactite in a perilous dance macabre. The icicle snapped and Pete was left hanging. “Did you see that?”, he exclaimed. There were no more friendly “ducks”, but at least his expletives rhymed.

Preparing the first abseil in full-bore spindrift

Martin leading the entry pitch as the snowfall commences

From this position I feared he might need a hoist but the episode seemed to have an energising effect. He clawed his way back to the line, reached the stance and adopted a commanding role as I contrived a massive rope tangle when transferring the lapped coils. For 15 minutes we worked feverishly to unhitch several knots. At times we could barely see each other in the enveloping spindrift gusts. The storm had arrived early and precious hours had passed. Fresh snow drifts were building on every ledge.

I hurried up right to the top of the fall and made a solid ice thread where a single 60 metre abseil just touched down at the bottom. Half a foot of fresh snow added to the knee-deep drifts that we had encountered on the approach pitches, and this new snow had a strangely cohesive texture despite its softness. There was a big temptation to unrope and plough down the lower ramp as quickly as possible to quit the storm. Intuition suggested that we should keep abseiling all the way back to the sticks, and on the final abseil I triggered a surface slide of snow several inches thick.

Having regained the ski sticks and standing in the shelter of an overhang I felt sufficiently secure to take off my rucksack and start packing while Den and Pete abseiled down to me. “Thank goodness, we are off”, I thought. Almost immediately the sky darkened and a fierce blast of wind hit me, knocking me back on the abseil ropes. The gale was followed by a ten second pummelling of snow. We’d been hit by an airborne avalanche. When the air cleared I looked down and my rucksack had disappeared, blown straight off the cliff. I was glad I hadn’t detached myself from the rope or I might have gone with it.

Den and Pete arrived in states of great excitement. They too had been hit by the avalanche. Now, I was in a double panic. My sack contained much of value, but to search for it I’d have to scour the approach slopes, now loaded with snow. I reckoned that we’d be safe from any further airborne blasts for half-an-hour or so. We coiled the ropes and I scouted a route off the slopes. A rib of ground with small trees provided the safest descent. I guided Den and Pete over, then went back to the slopes beneath the climb. I was convinced that my sack would be buried in debris from the avalanche, so I poked about in the surface drift, which promptly avalanched to a depth of six inches, almost taking me down-slope with it. I twisted out of the slide, losing a ski pole in the process.

What a dilemma! Either I abandon a rucksack containing a thousand pounds’ worth of kit or must risk getting avalanched. Attachment to possessions overrode the urge for self-preservation. I recommenced my probing. The decision wasn’t quite as irrational as it seems! From security of a rock island I met short cautious forays in all directions. Nothing happened. I went out further and began digging around in the snow. Nothing happened. I then commenced sweep searches back and forwards. After twenty minutes it dawned on me that there was actually no avalanche debris on the slopes. The snow was smooth and had none of the lumpiness of an avalanche talus.

The only hope was that the sack had been blown much further down the mountain. I rejoined Den and Pete halfway down to the base, and we scoured every dark lump of rock or grass, until at the very foot of the slope I spied the sack.

With the bag recovered and with the avalanche risk quitted, a sense of euphoria took hold of our party. We left the mountain to its maelstrom and hurried back to the car, where Pete realised he’d lost one of his axes. Back up the tracks we tramped, and on a second search he found his tool. At last we could take flight and head back to Aurland for beer and pizzas.

The boys seemed thrilled by the whole experience. I was less sanguine. After a winter light on snow and free of objective risk, we’d been lured into a trap. At least we’d escaped intact, but the outcome might have been different but for some fine judgements. For me the experience was as sobering as it was inspiring. There was no problem naming the route. “Sitting Ducks Climb” now sits proudly on the pantheon of Stondalen’s finest ice lines!

Route description: Aurland; Upper Stondalen: Dauersnosi
Sitting Ducks Climb 200m III, WI5 *
Up right from the craggy nose of Dauersnosi a steep icefall forms in a recess, prominently in view from the hydro-plant. Beware of avalanches after fresh snow. Park above the hydro plant before the road twists up and through a tunnel into Rausmusdalen. Walk up a boulder-filled hollow, then climb diagonally up right for 150m to a ramp under a rock band. Easy snow-slopes with short steps lead up left for 120m. Climb a steep tongue of ice (WI4) or make a detour round to the left to gain a bowl beneath the main fall. Climb the fall in one big 55m pitch (WI5) up left and a shorter pitch (15m, WI4) back right to the top. Abseil from here (1 x 60m gains the top of the bowl and 3 x 60m lead back down the ramp).
A longer but easier angled line of ice ramps to the right of the icefall offers a second route option here.